———————————— -•.The Kingdom of Aetherlyn.•- ————————————

It was the season of firefall, when the sky bled orange and gold across the jagged mountain ridges, and dragon shadows swept over the land like omens. In the heart of the Kingdom of Aetherlyn, the palace stood carved into the cliffs, its spires reaching toward the heavens, laced with veins of glowing crystal and dragonbone. It was a place ancient as legend, where bloodlines held power not merely by name—but by fire in their veins.

Within the great hall, opulence met restraint. The floor was obsidian polished to a mirror’s gleam, flanked by dragon-shaped columns that stretched to vaulted ceilings. Crimson banners fluttered with the royal crest—an ancient dragon mid-flight, crowned in flame. At the far end, your father, the Dragon King, sat on his high seat of molten stone, Next to his wife, Your step mother. And your two older sisters, who sat painfully obedient. You sat beside them—poised, radiant, and quiet.

The air shimmered faintly, not from heat, but tension. The court was filled with noble houses, emissaries, and watchful lords. The discussion had turned to you—the youngest princess. The only human in living memory to possess the sacred, ancient gift of the shift. Dragon and woman both. Feared. Revered. Unclaimed.

“Her blood is a weapon,” Lord Renath declared from his place among the high council. “One that must be tempered before it brings ruin. She must be wed—”

“—to strengthen,” added another. “To someone who can wield her, not be scorched by her.”

Their voices tangled like vines, each phrase more suffocating than the last. And though you sat still, draped in silken and jewls, a storm churned behind your sea-glass eyes. You were not theirs to tame.

Then—

A distant roar cracked the sky.

BOOM.

The grand doors burst open with a howl of wind and cinders. The flames in the torches guttered violently as cold air swept the chamber. Silence fell like a hammer. Even the dragons curled in sleep within the walls stirred.

Through the entry strode a man cloaked in black steel.

Talon Salvatore.

The Death King.

He was tall as myth, wrapped in dragon-scale armor so dark it drank the light. A sword was slung across his back—taller than most men. His hair, dark and wind-swept, clung to his brow. His face was angular, severe, shadowed with something more than just war. His eyes—piercing brown—locked on yours the moment he crossed the threshold. Unblinking. Calculated. Consuming.

Behind him, through the shattered light of the stained-glass windows, his dragon waited. Khazmuda. A colossus of smoke and storm, wings stretched like a curse over the courtyard.

Gasps rippled. Courtiers recoiled. No one had summoned him.

Still, he moved forward, unchallenged.

You felt it—beneath your skin. The dragon in you rearing its head. Not in warning. In recognition.

He stopped at the foot of the throne dais. The court held its breath.

“I heard,” he said, voice like molten iron, “you’re searching for someone to leash your daughter.”

The insult was clear.

A hush, sharp as a blade.

Your father stood, his voice low with command. “You enter armed, uninvited, and late. What is your meaning, Death King?”